


how can i keep you

by alekszova



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, One Shot, Or very little comfort., takes place during chapter 2 mostly.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 04:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19995925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekszova/pseuds/alekszova
Summary: Ten times Arthur is the reason that Charles gets hurt.





	how can i keep you

**1.**

The first time it's something small. It barely registers—to Arthur at least. He's pushed suddenly. Knocked off his feet by Charles colliding into him. Slammed into a tree and then falling to his feet while the bullets rain down. He's barely caught his breath when he realizes what happened. Charles pushing him out of the way. Charles saving him. Charles protecting him. Or maybe he just fell. Is it stupid of him to assume an accidental action like that is more believable than someone trying to help him from a gunner he hadn't noticed before?

Arthur pushes up, hiding behind the fence, looking over to Charles in the ground. Fear rises up for a moment, his stomach twisting, blood turning colder and colder.

“Charles? Charles, are you okay?”

And then Charles moves, looking up to him. A quiet  _ I’m fine  _ written in his eyes as he sits up.

_ He's okay. He's okay. He's okay. _

Thank fucking god he's okay.

  
  


**2.**

Charles' arm is broken because of him. This time it's Arthur crashing into Charles. Pushed backward out of a bar and stumbling into Charles behind him. The two fall off the ledge of the porch, hitting the ground where the guy trying to kill Arthur jumps after them and the punches resume.

It isn't until after the fight that Arthur noticed how Charles was holding his arm close to his chest. He doesn't know exactly how it happened—he just knows it's his fault. Maybe it happened when they fell. Maybe it happened in the moments Arthur was face down in the dirt trying to get his vision to clear up and the blood and dirt out of his mouth and Charles had taken his place in the fight. He can't remember. He can't remember if Charles was using his right arm in the fight or not.

When they get back, when Charles is bandaged up and sitting around the fire, Arthur steals a spot beside him. Tries his best to apologize and thank him but the words don't come out the way he means them to. They're all jumbled and lost and Charles cuts him off with a simple:

"It's okay. I know."

  
  


**3.**

It’s something quite small, quite stupid, but it makes him realize what’s happened. That no matter what, Charles is the one that’s there to pick up his messes or try and protect him. His arm is broken and yet when the bottle slips from Arthur’s hands and the glass cracks into a hundred pieces, Charles is the one reaches down and starts to pick them up.

_ “Stop,”  _ he says, trying to reach for the glass. “I’ve got it.”

“We can both pick it up, Arthur.”

“You’re goin’ to hurt yourself. Drop it, Charles. I mean it.”

Charles looks up at him, annoyance on his face. “You always refuse help.”

“It’s glass.”

“It’s more than the glass, Arthur,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s everything—”

His words are cut off, a piece of glass slipping from his hand and falling down onto the rock again, shattering into smaller pieces. Blood drips down Charles’ palm, Arthur feels a stab of guilt in his chest.

“I told you—”

He’s quiet. Silenced by that same look Charles gave him before. The one that tells him to stop arguing, to shut up, to leave it be. He listens this time.

  
  


**4.**

He probably shouldn’t count it, but he does. The way Charles winces when Arthur cleans his wound, the way his hand pulls away a little bit when Arthur wraps the bandage around his palm a little too tightly. Another bit of harm inflicted upon him because of Arthur. He counts it, like he counts all the small things.

The splinters he gets when he went to chop firewood before his arm was broken. The ones that he’d pluck out by the fire and toss them into the embers. The times he almost gets hit by bullets because Arthur’s aim isn’t always as precise as he likes to pretend it is. The times he  _ does  _ get hit. Little scrapes that might not kill him but still wound him. The time he cut his hands when he was skinning a deer because Arthur was too busy tracking the next one down and wanted to speed things along a little faster.

All of the little things add up. The splinters and the scrapes and the bruises. It isn’t as if Arthur doesn’t have his own but he isn’t getting them because of others mistakes—he’s getting them from his own. It’s not the same. It feels like he is inflicting this damage directly upon Charles himself. Delivering it like a present.

  
  


**5.**

He has a dream. One where Charles falls off the cliff at camp. One where he is still alive but laying on the ground bloody and broken. Arthur, in the dream, had pushed him. He didn’t see it happen. He only remembers looking over the edge and seeing Charles laying near-death below, but he has this feeling in the pit of his stomach. The thing that tells him even if the person in his dream wore a different face, they were still Abigail or they were still Dutch or they were still Charles. A soul in the wrong body. It’s the thing that tells him he pushed Charles.

He wakes up crying, has to hide his face from the few others that are still awake. Sneaking over to the edge, looking down below, trying to see if Charles is there. He isn’t, of course. He’s not even at camp. After his arm finally heals, he went a few miles away to camp in the woods and hunt. Arthur hadn’t gone with.

He hadn’t gone with because the night before he left, Arthur had a different dream. One where he wasn’t the cause of Charles’ pain but instead the one that kissed the scars left on his body, where he held him close and was able to soothe away the wounds. To heal him.

He’s never been held before. Not since he was a child. Once he was old enough, he was the one holding people. Not the other way around. He doesn’t remember what it’s like for someone to hold him, and that’s all Charles really did in the dream besides kiss him back. He just held Arthur so tight that it was like tonight. Waking up before the sun has decided to rise but everyone else has decided to go to sleep. Crept over somewhere he could be alone in the dark and cry because he doesn’t know why he would dream of Charles in that way. Why it would matter to him so much to crave someone like him to hold him close.

And it’s just a dream. They are both just dreams, but Arthur counts them in his list, too. The both of them.

  
  


**6.**

They get ambushed in the woods. The two of them hunting. Charles had asked Arthur to come along with him this time. He doesn’t understand why. He'd been fine before. And even more so, Arthur is unsure why he agreed to come with even if he's glad that he gets to be close to him. Maybe especially because of the joy he obtains from being close to Charles.

But then they’re ambushed, and it breaks whatever happiness he got from this. It’s late at night and he feels someone kick him in the spine and the wind knocked out of his lungs, and as he falls forward he knows that this was all a mistake. 

Arthur knows why the strangers are doing this to him, specifically. He stole from them. Robbed a camp a while back. Took valuables that seemed a little more precious and sentimental than an average watch or piece of jewelry. Things that fetched a high price—money he later spent to help the camp’s supplies stay a little fuller. This is why they are hurting Arthur, but this isn’t why they’re hurting Charles. Making slashes against his skin—slices that will hurt and bleed but won’t kill. Bending his arm until that sickening crack is stuck in his head like it had been before. Hurting him until there are tears in his eyes that Arthur can see even if Charles won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing them. It doesn’t matter. They’re listening to Arthur scream, they’re listening to Arthur fight and beg and plead for them to leave him alone.

He is not a beggar. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He would’ve accepted it if they had killed him. But he can’t handle Charles being hurt anymore than he’s already been hurt. And again—it is all Arthur’s fault. Again and again it's Arthur's fault. 

This is why they are hurting Charles, and he knows that. Hurting him to watch Arthur squirm and fight against the people holding him back. The anger builds and builds until he finally gets free, stumbles and fights and does little to win against the others because he can hardly see in the dark of the night and he is blinded by the images of Charles hurt and bleeding.

  
  


**7.**

“Arthur, stop. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur, he’s dead. Stop.  _ Please _ .”

Maybe it’s Charles’ voice. Maybe it’s the fact the man’s face is unrecognizable now. Maybe it’s that he’s sure one of his fingers has broken in this excursion.

He pulls away, looks to Charles. There’s blood on his shirt. More than there was before. He’s clutching his side where Arthur doesn’t remember him being hurt before. Wounded in the fight. The others are dead. Two laying on the ground with their eyes open, the anger dying with them. There's a gun at Charles' side, hanging loosely in his grasp like he desperately wants to drop it but doesn't want to risk losing his only weapon. Arthur only got one of them. He couldn’t even help Charles with the other two.

But they’re dead now.

He stands, stumbling towards Charles, pulling him close, listening to him let out a hiss of pain when Arthur wraps his arms around his body.

“I’m so sorry.”

_ I’m so sorry,  _ he repeats again and again, trying to stifle his sobs but they don’t stop. He just keeps crying and holding onto Charles and trying to keep himself from saying that he loves him. Because he does. Because he might’ve fought for anyone else in the camp if they were being tortured because of him, but it wouldn’t have been for the same reasons.

Charles’ one good arm wraps around him, pulls him even closer even though it must hurt. Arthur hurts. His body aches and protests the act of being squeezed so tightly but he doesn’t pull away.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  
  


**8.**

It’s painful watching Charles suffer as they try to get to camp as quickly as possible. They do the best they can to stop the bleeding of the wounds with shredded remains of a shirt, but it isn’t enough. Arthur keeps searching in his bag for alcohol to press into Charles’ hand in the hopes that it will make some of the pain go away, but it never does enough.

And when they get back, he listens to the sounds of Charles screams as they fix a dislocated shoulder, try to set a broken arm again, try to clean up and stitch wounds closed to keep him from bleeding death. It is more painful than focusing on his own wounds as they try to bandage up the injuries he received. They are so little compared to Charles. Most of the blood on him isn’t his own—his nose bled for a long time, suspected to be broken until they told him it was fine. Just bruised, badly. His body is littered with contusions and he can barely move, but his pain isn’t the same as Charles’. They didn’t torture him even though he was the one that deserved it. He is fine. He's okay.

But Charles isn't, and that is really all that matters to him.

  
  


**9.**

He had to leave. He had to. He couldn’t be the reason Charles got hurt again. Couldn’t be the one that caused him to be killed. Arthur wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Not when all he wants is to be happy and safe with him. Not knowing that he is somehow cursed, somehow the reason that every time Charles gets hurt, it’s his fault.

He can get up on his horse. He’s in too much pain and he can’t manage to get high enough off the ground. He tries ten times before he gives up and grabs the reins to lead Peaches down the path from the camp. He can’t walk very fast. One arm wrapped around his torso like it will keep the bruises and the pain away when all it does is remind him of that brief moment that he got to hold Charles.

He’s not crying. There are tears in his eyes but he refuses to let one fall. He keeps going. Keeps walking. Trips and stumbles his way along the path in the dark hoping no one will see him and ask what he’s doing. He’s abandoned the entire camp. He knows that. He knows it isn’t just him leaving Charles behind—even if that’s the reason he has to go. There is too much guilt in every single one of his actions to make sense of them. It is useless to try.

“Arthur?”

He freezes, turns slowly to face him. Charles, barely held together, calling to him from up the path. He didn’t make it very far from camp. He can still see the smoke in the air above the fire.

“Charles,” he replies quietly, not sure if he’s even loud enough to be heard. Not sure if he has much else to say than state the obvious. 

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“I—”

“I saw you trying to get on the horse. Packing it up, too. You’re leaving, aren’t you? For good, I mean.”

He doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t want to tell the truth. He opts for nothing, which is an answer in and of itself. But either way this is going to hurt Charles. Finding out Arthur lied to him or finding out that he left him. Either or. Maybe he is fooling himself. Thinking that Charles cares more about him than he does. That Arthur’s leaving would have any effect on him. Maybe it’d have none at all.

“Charles…” Arthur says, trying to find words. Someway to shift the conversation. Something to fill the gap of silence.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Don’t go.”

“If I stay, you’ll—” Arthur stops himself, realizing how impossible it is to put his fear into the words. Like it's selfish to voice that fear. Making it about him instead of Charles. Dismantling his pain and giving it to himself. 

“What? What’ll happen to me?”

“You’ll get hurt," he answers, before he can stop himself.

He watches Charles shake his head, step a little bit further down the path. He’s slow making his way to Arthur. It almost looks like he has a limp and he tries to remember if when they were listing off Charles’ injuries and when Arthur saw his clothes, if there was ever anything that would show a reason for it. Or if it's because of the uneven surface, the rocks embedded in the dirt path. The main making walking difficult whether or not his legs had been affected. 

“You’re an idiot.”

“What?”

“I said you’re an idiot. Hold still.”

_ Hold still.  _ He doesn’t understand what Charles is getting at until he's in front of Arthur and there’s a hand on his waist, pulling him closer. He stays there for a moment, looking up at him, watching Charles stare back at him with a hesitation that makes him understand. Understand that he wasn’t the only one having dreams and thoughts about the two of them. Stupid twisted fantasies he could never afford.

Maybe he could. 

It’s stupid, but he’s helpless. Arthur should still leave him, the camp, everybody. Better if he’s on his own. Safer for everyone. He understands why Charles has been called a lone wolf. But now he’s kissing him and his thoughts are gone and fuzzy like he's underwater and he doesn’t remember which one of them initiated it. If it was Charles or Arthur to close the gap. And it doesn't matter.

There’s something in his chest that becomes both sated and hungry at the same time. The starving need for more, knowing that one kiss isn’t going to be enough but also knowing that at least he’s had one. Knowing that this is exactly what he’s wanted all along.

The kiss had started off soft and tentative but it's different now. Needy and wanting and making it hard to breathe properly. The hand at his waist moves against the fabric of his shirt to the small of Arthur's back, pressed under the waistband of his pants, pulling him closer and closer until he thinks they might merge into one being.

Charles pulls away and Arthur feels himself stumble after him, some attempt not to end it that soon. Wanting it back again, wanting the thing he denied himself for so long to be there forever. 

“Stay,” Charles whispers. “Please.”

He thinks he might be crying now and shame fills him up from the inside, pouring outwards. He doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want people to see him cry. It reminds him of how weak he is. How incapable he was of protecting the people he cares about the most.

And maybe it’s because Charles has kissed him and that weakness carries into this. Maybe it’s because he’s selfish. Maybe it’s because he realized how much more he wants. And it doesn’t matter if he knows he should leave because Charles is holding him in a way that makes him realize this is where he’s always wanted to be.

So he replies with a very quiet, very terrified, “Okay.”

  
  


**10.**

“Relax.”

He tries. Shifting his weight and resting his head against Charles’ shoulder. Trying not to be a ball of tension, trying to allow himself to be content in this moment.

It’s not the thought of other people seeing them. They're hidden quite well in this little space by the river. It’s the fact that Charles is still very much injured. It’s been a week—a week of Charles healing enough to leave the camp and come down the hill to be here with him. A week of Arthur trying to figure out the words to explain why he had to leave. A week of Charles telling him that it was never really Arthur’s fault. That it was the other’s for hurting them. That it was his own for deciding to step in the way.

It’s not true. It was always Arthur’s fault. He just can’t put it into words to explain that properly, and eventually, even though he tries every night. Charles will tell him to be quiet as the argument comes to a close, reminding Arthur that he’s an adult. That he’s capable of making his own decisions. That he would always be there to help him. There isn’t a limited amount of times he would save Arthur’s life. He’d do it again and again.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not going to hurt me.”

“I am.”

“You are,” Charles says quietly. “But it’s okay.”

“It’s okay?”

“It’d be a good kind of hurt.”

Arthur tries not to roll his eyes and instead closes them, turning his face against Charles’ chest, trying to relax into leaning against him. The arm around him is tight and reassuring, despite the pain it causes to his torso. The bruises that are still healing there.

And he gets what Charles means, suddenly. That it’s the good kind of hurt. He is still in pain, he would still be more comfortable if he wasn’t squeezed so tightly, and Charles probably would be, too. But it’s the layer underneath it all. The one telling him that Charles just wants to be as close to him as possible. To hold him. To keep him safe, even if it hurts.

That’s all he wants, too, as selfish and greedy as it may be.

**Author's Note:**

> i still haven't finished the game, lads.


End file.
